


Silent Night

by Flywoman



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Dark, F/M, post-episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-10-25
Updated: 1998-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-12 21:30:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flywoman/pseuds/Flywoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dark!Mulder/Scully, a metaphor. Set during "A Christmas Carol"/"Emily."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Night

I sleep with the curtains open in my old room, or rather, I lie awake, squirming under the comforter, watching the moonlit square glow and dim as the hours pass in fretful silence. That's why when the door creaks open a crack I know him, even though the house breathes behind him too dark to cast his tall and slender silhouette. That's why I shrink away beneath the sheets, turning my face away to the wall with my eyes shut tight. As if closing myself off will keep him out. As if it ever has before.

For a moment, nothing. I sense him halting in the doorway, hesitant, glancing behind him to reassuring silence and then into the room for a sign of wakefulness or sleep. Then the unnamed insistent need that drove him upstairs flares up again, a smouldering coal in his belly, and he tenses and steps in, the door clicking softly shut. It is not a large room. Three quick strides and he is slipping into the bed beside me, one long arm reaching around for my breast as he curls his lanky body around my back.

I go rigid, my eyes still squeezed shut, as his cool skin leaches the warmth right out of my shoulders, my thighs. "Scully," he breathes into my ear, a plea, a warning, "Scully," and he begins to unbutton my pajama top, rubs his hand possessively down the flat slope of my tummy, then further down under the elastic of my pants. I make no move either to assist or struggle as he yanks down my panties until they tangle around my calves, then removes his hand for a moment of reprieve before he pulls me back against him, hard. I suck in a harsh breath as he slides roughly between my legs and in, already slick. To my shame I feel an answering pulse, a sudden rush of moisture despite my hoarded anger and bewilderment.

"Scully," he groans against the nape of my neck as I push back reflexively against him, "Scully, I knew you'd understand," and he suddenly withdraws, leaving a slow burn in his wake. One tug on the point of my shoulder and I am lying on my back, knees falling open of their own accord, and he is on top of me, looming over me, the long smooth planes of his face glimmering in the moonlight. He plants his hands on either side of my head, pulling my hair taut against my temples so that tears spring to my eyes. I try to lie still, watching him through a hot blur as he pumps up and down on top of me, eyes glittering, generous mouth twisted in a grimace of exertion.

Somewhere further down my body responds, little tremors of sensation radiating outward from the center of moist friction, but my head is full of a child, dying, and the words dropped defensively into an empty room, "I thought I was protecting you." The mattress springs whine rhythmically as he plunges into my traitorous flesh, my hips bucking up to meet him. A searing trickle leaks from the corners of my eyes even as my breath starts to quicken.

Two more strokes, deep, brutal, and _"Scully,"_ he keens, and shudders, and spends. He has never come inside me before, always carried on the pretense requiring the false protection of a latex barrier, but I guess he realized there was no point anymore after his words to the judge. Or maybe, just as likely, he didn't think at all. Whatever the case, he is finished, and I am suffocating under his weight, pushed down into the depths of the mattress, sheets sodden with our sweat. His head lolls drunkenly on my chest, his heart pounding under my ribcage. I reach up absently, stroking his hair back from where it straggles on his damp forehead.

He lies on top of me for a minute more as his panting slows and softens, and then he levers himself up and rolls aside. I do not look at him, but I know that his eyes search my face for signs of satiation. My own body still aches for him, distantly, but I am not about to remind him of that fact, so I sigh a little and force a tiny smile. Satisfied, and sure of my forgiveness, he leans forward to press his lips to my forehead. "Sweet dreams," he whispers, and then pulls on his sweatpants and leaves as quietly as he has come.

The house is silent once more. To rebutton my pajamas, to tug my bottoms back up over my bruised hips, would require too much effort. I stare blindly at the window until the dawn approaches, stroking the panes with inexorable fingertips.

**Author's Note:**

> "I love the way we communicate your eyes focus on my funny lip shape  
> let's hear what you think of me now but baby don't look up the sky is falling"  
> -Tori Amos
> 
> Completed 10/25/98.


End file.
